


Post

by thescienceofshipping



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Jazz - Freeform, Jazz and Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescienceofshipping/pseuds/thescienceofshipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short ficlets post the JVC performance.</p><p>The young man on stage was no longer his son. The Andrew that he had loved and raised was dead. The person who inhabited his son’s body was nothing more than the twisted and beautiful creation of another man. If Terence Fletcher could be called a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Blood dripped down on his drums like a second set of sticks. The JVC audience had grown deathly quiet and even the rest of the band looked at him with a mix of horror and amazement. Andrew didn’t notice them or spare them a single glance. 

No. All he cared about were the stunned and seemingly blank eyes of Terence Fletcher. He gasped for air, reaching the crescendo of Caravan. He had never performed like this before. Had never felt like this before.

Andrew finished, meeting Fletcher’s gaze again, seeking approval. Validation. Anything. 

The sticks fell from his blood drenched hands and dropped against the stage.

There was dead silence throughout the audience for a moment before Fletcher gave the smallest nod of approval. Andrew broke into a wide grin as the audience and fellow musicians rose to their feet in praise, having just witnessed the true birth of the next Charlie Parker. 

Jim Neiman sobbed loudly. The young man on stage was no longer his son. The Andrew that he had loved and raised was dead. The person who inhabited his son’s body was nothing more than the twisted and beautiful creation of another man. If Terrence Fletcher could be called a man.

Fletcher strode over to Andrew slowly, never breaking eye contact. For a moment he thought that Fletcher might kill him. It was surprisingly to realize that he didn’t care if he did. 

Instead he put on a hand on Andrew’s shoulder and squeezed. He leaned in to whisper in his ear the two words that he had once deemed the most harmful phrase in the English language. “Good job.”

Andrew laughed like a madman as he remembered the words shared between them weeks ago at the club. He had changed Fletcher (so very, very slightly) even as the man had changed him completely. 

He was lead off the stage after a moment, his teacher's hand still guiding him. Andrew was shoved against the wall as soon as they could no longer see the audience. ‘Mine,” Fletcher growled as he smashed his lips forward in a mockery of a kiss. There was no gentle touch or lover embrace. Instead there was only teeth and blood.

After a moment Fletcher pulled away. Andrew gave a whine of disappointment. “Shut the fuck up, you little faggot,” he snapped with only a shred of his usual anger. He pulled Andrew into an empty rehearsal room and grabbed him sharply.

“When we leave this room you’re going to be heralded as the next Charlie Parker.” Fletcher and Andrew both noticed how hard the other grew at the words. “Jazz is all about connection. I’m your agent now and if you so much as want to take a fucking piss you had better ask me first.”

Andrew nodded breathlessly. “Yeah,” he murmured, even though he knew that he had no choice in the matter. He smiled like a man possessed. “You’re gonna take care of this too?”

Fletcher slapped Andrew across the cheek, and did the same to the other side for good measure.”Fucking homo.” He pulled down their pants quickly. “All you care about is a big hard cock in your ass.”

Andrew closed his eyes and let out a small noise as Fletcher pushed two fingers between his lips. “Better make these wet because it’s all the help I’m giving you.”

He sucked Fletcher’s fingers with the same single minded devotion that he had previously reserved only for drumming. 

“This is your life now,” Fletcher said. He withdrew his fingers and pushed one inside of Andrew without warning. “No more movie nights with your father or date nights with whatever queer you pay to fuck you. You do everything I say and nothing else.”

Andrew was crying silently. He was not the single tear type of person that Fletcher had once accused him of being. “Touch me,” he begged. “Fuck me.”

“Greedy slut,” Fletcher said. He pushed in another of his thick fingers. “Better hope I don’t catch anything from you. God knows who you’ve slept with.”

“Only you,” Andrew moaned. He had kissed Nicole once, and only once. And there had been no one before or after. 

Fletcher smirked. “Look at you, Neiman. Just proved yourself to be one of the greats, but all you care about is getting fucked.” Blood pooled around Fletcher’s cock from the lack of prep. Neither man cared. Andrew draped his arms around Fletcher’s neck to stay upright.

“My Bird,” Fletcher groaned as he fucked Andrew. “I made you. Everything you are is because of me. I own you.”

Andrew could only focus on getting fucked. He didn’t dare touch his cock. “Yours,” he promised. “I’m your Charlie Parker.”

Fletcher bit down onto the side of Andrew’s neck, leaving a love bite. The drummer cried out Fletcher’s name as he came untouched. He only lasted a moment longer, spilling inside of Andrew.

They both closed their eyes and rested their foreheads together. “You’re mine now, Andrew,” Fletcher warned him.

Andrew let out a breathy laugh. “Always.”


	2. Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been two months since the JVC performance where Andrew had taken the jazz world by storm. It felt so much longer to the boy whose fans and critics alike had deemed him the new Charlie Parker. Andrew was flooded with calls and emails begging for an interview. A record deal. A spot on one of the best orchestras in the world. By all means Andrew Neiman had made it to the big leagues.
> 
> It was only a shame that he didn’t get to appreciate it.

It had been two months since the JVC performance where Andrew had taken the jazz world by storm. It felt so much longer to the boy whose fans and critics alike had deemed him the new Charlie Parker. Andrew was flooded with calls and emails begging for an interview. A record deal. A spot on one of the best orchestras in the world. By all means Andrew Neiman had made it to the big leagues.

It was only a shame that he didn’t get to appreciate it.

…

Fletcher’s phone rang . The man frowned as he picked it up and glanced at the number.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped at the boy currently strapped to his bed. He had been giving Neiman a lesson on just what the punishment was for lying about practicing while Fletcher had been out having a drink with an old acquaintance.

Andrew frowned but grew silent as Fletcher picked up the phone. He recognized the Rolling Stones reporter in seconds.

“Terence Fletcher,” he answered, the unasked question. There was no need to say whose agent he was. Everyone knew that Fletcher was a package deal with his client. Andrew was never seen without his agent.

Agent. Teacher. Lover. Abuser. Master. It was all the same.

He left the room to take the call, and Andrew sighed inwardly. He had just become hopeful that Fletcher would take pity on him and allow him release.

Instead he stared at the ceiling blinking out a beat - he could not move his hands. But he had to be ready for Germany next week.

And Switzerland the week after.

And France after that.

And England, and Spain and all of the other places Fletcher had arranged for them to travel over the next six months.

Thirty minutes passed before Fletcher came back. “Three o’clock Sunday we have an interview. And a photo shoot, though who would want a lasting memory of your ugly face is beyond me.”

Andrew stayed silent. Normally he would have made a small quip but he was currently gagged and tied to the bed.

Fletcher barked a laugh at the desperate boy. “Slut. Why the hell would I want to fuck such a pathetic things?”

He slapped Andrew’s inner thighs. “You’re not coming tonight,” he decided. “Practice ‘Straight no Chaser’ and if you work up enough of a sweat I’ll let you have dinner.”

Andrew pouted as the gag was taken off. “I don’t have a performance till next week. And all I’ve had today is that gross protein drink you made for breakfast.”

Fletcher slapped Andrew hard across the face. He was working hard to make the boy somewhat less doughy. Ugly you couldn’t change, but weight was possible.

“I swear to God, you won’t eat until we’re in Germany if you’re not at your drums in two minutes.”

He had forced Andrew to move in after JVC. It was important that he controlled every aspect of his life completely, and he would be an idiot to trust him to follow his directions alone.

Andrew pulled on his boxers before smirking as he kissed Fletcher’s cheek and racing to his soundproofed practice room.

“God damn faggot,” Fletcher groaned, wiping the memory of the kiss away as Andrew began to play.

He listened for a few minutes before going to make dinner. He cooked himself a steak and made Andrew fish. The boy was finally beginning to get in shape, but he didn’t work out nearly enough to get red meat more than once a week. 

Fletcher had a small home gym in the corner of the bedroom, and went to the fully sized one at least once a day. He had Andrew train at the apartment first thing in the morning and again at night. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by bringing Andrew to the gym with him just yet. 

When dinner was finished cooking Fletcher stopped Andrew. “You’re done for the day.”

Andrew gave a sigh of relief and went to wash the blood from his hands before sitting down.

He frowned when he noticed only one glass of wine at the table. “Come on, Terence,” he said, frustrated. He had gotten into the habit of calling Fletcher by his first name when he wanted to pretend that they were equals.

Fletcher rolled his eyes. “I just got you off pills. I’m not about to turn you onto booze.” Particularly when he had such an expensive collection of alcohol. 

Andrew sighed dramatically and snatched the glass from Fletcher. “You drove me to the pills, asshole.”

Fletcher practically growled. “You little shit.” It was after ten and he was in no mood for another knock out fight. The neighbors called the police on them every other day as it was. So instead he simply hit his head lightly. “Eat your fucking salmon.”

Andrew did just that. When they were done he collected their plates and rinsed them off before putting them in the dishwasher. He had had the process for how Fletcher liked chores to be done beaten into him.

Fletcher showered and put on a pair of plain black pajama pants while Andrew stripped down to nothing and hopped into bed.

“I already told you that I’m not fucking you tonight,” Fletcher snapped. He got into bed and Andrew cuddled up to his side. Another bad habit.

“Fine,” he muttered in defeat. “But you had better do it tomorrow morning before I call you Terry during my interview.” He grinned at the threat.

“One more word out of you, and you’ll be sleeping on the couch for the week,” Fletcher warned.

Andrew laughed and kissed him before laying his head down onto his chest. Fletcher reluctantly wrapped an arm around him as well.

They lay like that for awhile before Andrew began to fall asleep.

“I love you,” the boy murmured softly. 

“I hate you,” his teacher growled.

As Fletcher held Andrew close and kissed his head when he fell asleep, he realized that only one of them had lied.


End file.
